


Some People Think I'm Mad

by king_wizard



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Age Difference, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Frottage, Lolita!Dean, M/M, Manhandling, Size Difference, Size Kink, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:29:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_wizard/pseuds/king_wizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean saw his reflection in the stranger's gaze the way he sees his reflection in John’s. He isn't sure what it means, exactly, but he plans to find out. (Prequel to Won't You Tell 'Em I'm Mad)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some People Think I'm Mad

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel to [Won't You Tell 'Em I'm Mad](http://archiveofourown.org/works/952751). This doesn't contain any explicit sex between John/Dean, but it's pretty clearly implied for the future. This is mostly a look into how Dean could become the Lolita!Dean of the original fic. Feedback is appreciated!

"She's a little too old for you, Deano."  
  
Dean grins widely at his father's words, the warm, laughing tone of them, the stupid nickname that carries affection like wind carries the scent of blood. His father rolls his eyes, but his smile is still dimple deep and true. It's a Sammy smile, through and through, one that many can paint but only Dean sculpt into his family.  
  
His chest is already tight with the thrill and the pride of a hunt. He did good tonight. That's what John had said when he'd gripped Dean's shoulders with heavy hands. Dean had tried to hide his shine at the compliment - hunting wasn't about ego, wasn't about proving strength or brilliance, was only about the people – but he can't clamp the preening gleam that pulses in his sore muscles.  
  
The leftover adrenaline from the hunt, from the heart hammering words John spoke, spills into the tiny diner now. It flickers with the fluorescent lights, bounces with the sway of their waitress's hips.  
  
Dean can't pull the shiny slick of his excitement back inside his skin. He can only flex and leak, restless in the buzz, body aching to move again.  
  
"Thanks, sweetheart," Dean says, blinking wide eyes at the dark haired waitress who refills his chocolate milk.  
  
The waitress, Mindy on her shiny nametag, laughs. "You got yourself a little stud here, huh?" she asks John.  
  
"You could have yourself a little stud," Dean interjects. He throws in a wink for good measure, and when Mindy laughs again, he grins.  
  
"Why don't you give me a call when you're old enough to order somethin' a little stronger than chocolate milk?" Mindy teases, but she mirrors Dean's earlier wink, and Dean doesn't mind the quip.  
  
Dean watches the movement of her skirt hem as she walks away. With a sigh, he takes another sip of his drink.  
  
"Dean," his father says. The tone is clipped, colder than it was only moments earlier. Dean sits straighter in the booth. "I'm serious, son. You don't need to flirt with women three times your age."  
  
"Ah, c'mon, Dad. I was just messin' around. Y'know. A town like this, I'm sure Mindy doesn't get many thrills - "  
  
"You're not a thrill, Dean. You're a hunter."  
  
Dean bites his lip. A beat passes, shame coating his earlier pride, and he mumbles, "Yes, sir."  
  
John hesitates and for a moment, Dean thinks he is going to say something else: drive his point home with a lecture, remind Dean what he is (a fighter) and why he is (because people need protecting), or apologize for the harsh snap of words.  
  
When John nods and tells him to finish his plate, he realizes what a silly notion the latter thought was. John doesn't apologize: John is never wrong.  
  
Dean scoops a forkful of hash browns into his mouth, eyes fluttering at the buttery crunch. They haven't eaten at a place that serves decent food in days, and the warmth of crisp, golden starches sliding down his throat is enough to have him sighing and sinking into the booth.  
  
Half-way through his plate, he scans the diner, looking for a flash of Mindy's hair or the flutter of her skirt. His eyes lock onto the chocolate gaze of one of the only other patrons. The deep, smooth glide of brown eyes are framed by even darker lashes. Dean is struck by the heat of them.  
  
Unable to break the stranger's gaze, Dean licks his lips. The stranger's eyes fall to his mouth, then, and heat rushes to Dean's face.  
  
The stranger, the man, looks abruptly away.  
  
John tilts his head to find what has his son's attention, what has his son flushing. What he sees is a black man, rough around the edges - stubble on his chin, frayed edges on his jacket, something rugged in the air around him - who can't be much younger than himself.  
  
Dean realizes at the tick of his father's jaw that his little eye lock and flush have targeted the stranger as a threat. "Dad," he begins as John clenches his fist on the table, but he doesn't get a chance to finish.  
  
"Everybody get the fuck down!"  
  
The only couple in the diner, a woman with short blonde hair and a man who had been holding her hand, have jumped on their booths. Both shout wild and loud as they pull glocks from seemingly out of nowhere.  
  
Mindy and the other waitresses whimper at the first wave of the guns, skidding together in a terrified mass, and the kid mopping behind the counter drops the mop and puts his hands in the air.  
  
Dean glances at the couple, at his father. He can see John's weathered hands, the hands that have always seemed so huge and strong, reaching under his leather jacket for his own gun. Dean discreetly drops his own hand to the back waistband of his jeans, but when he meets his father's gaze, John shakes his head.  
  
"You two, on the ground," the woman screams as she moves towards them, gesturing to the whitewashed floor with her gun. "You - James."  
  
The man is wrangling all of the employees together behind the counter. The woman calls his name again, louder, more panicked.  
  
"What?" he snaps.  
  
"Where's the other guy?"  
  
"What other guy?"  
  
"The guy," she emphasizes, pointing to the booth the stranger occupied only moments ago. Dean's eyes widen as he glances around the diner. "The black guy that was perving on the kid."  
  
Dean flushes again.  
  
"You," James shouts, moving from behind the counter with his gun aimed at Dean.  
  
Before Dean can reach for his own piece, his father is stepping in front of him.  
  
John’s bulk blocks most of the action from Dean’s sight. Shots and screams ring through the diner before Dean even has a chance to peer around his father’s figure. When he does, he sees James lying face first on the tile and his father holding his gun between his fingers.  
  
"Take it easy," John is saying as he slowly approaches the woman. Dean glances between her shaking figure and his father's calm breadth. "Take it - "  
  
A flash of movement and suddenly the woman is on the ground, gun knocked clear across the diner as the stranger from earlier pins her hands behind her back.  
  
-  
  
Dean, John, and the stranger scurry from the diner before the cops swarm the parking lot. John is wanted in this county for ganking a vamp in front of a civilian who just couldn't be grateful John had saved their skin.  
  
Dean doesn't know why the stranger runs. He doesn't know why the stranger helped them. He doesn't know why the stranger held his gaze earlier, why the robbers thought he was perving on Dean, why he glanced back at Dean with heated eyes before he sped away from the scene on his motorcycle.  
  
-  
  
A little over half an hour of pretending to be asleep gets Dean alone in the motel room. He can feel his father's eyes on his chest as he forces it to rise up and down, steady, to paint the illusion of sleep. John's gaze is as hot and heavy as a physical touch, sliding over his upturned cheek, his side, the leg he has kicked out of the covers.  
  
Dean has always felt unsure in his own skin when his father looks at him. The looks are assessing, appraising, sometimes warm and sometimes so very clipped Dean forgets John is his daddy, not his drill sergeant. He wonders what John's eyes, that have seen so many terrible, incredible things, find in him.  
  
Since his last growth spurt, John's gaze feels...different. Thicker, somehow, more encompassing and inescapable. Dean thinks he could run to the other side of the planet and still feels his father's eyes following his steps. It's comforting as much as it is nerve and muscle and bone wracking. It's safety as much as it is danger.  
  
Dean doesn't know if his father is watching him in a different way, looking for different things, or if Dean is now something new to see. But he does know the strangeness in John's eyes, the strangeness it makes him feel, is not reserved for them alone.  
  
He saw his reflection in the stranger's gaze the way he sees his reflection in John’s. He isn't sure what it means, exactly, but he plans to find out.  
  
-  
  
The darkness of the night swallows the darkness of the bike. Black swirling into black, Dean can only see the lamp lights reflecting on the chrome.  
  
Shifting on his feet, Dean eyes each of the bland motel doors. The Winchesters never park the Impala in front of their room, always a few doors down. Dean is betting the stranger does the same. He's debating whether the man is to the right or left of the hog when a door creaks open.  
  
The man from the diner steps into the night. Leaning against the building, he fishes a cigarette from his pocket. His lighter shoots a thin flame into the air, and the fire sways with the light night breeze. Dean tracks the flicker until the cigarette burns cherry red and the stranger brings it to his mouth.  
  
Not exactly sure what he's doing, Dean forward.  
  
"Hey, stranger."  
  
The man curses a sharp "shit" before dropping his cigarette. He crushes the butt under his boot as he reaches for his room key.  
  
"Hey," Dean calls again, jogging to close the distance between them. His breath is a little quick and his chest beats a little heavy when he stops to the man's side.  
  
"Oh no, kid." The key fumbles into his hand and he turns to unlock the room.  
  
Dean's fingers wraps around the man's wrist (so thick he can barely touch his fingertips together, and he doesn't know why but something spreads low in his belly and his cheeks pink). The movement is lightning quick and jerky. Dean can't let the stranger ditch him now, not before he understands what that look in his eyes means, not before he understands why his father's eyes gleam the same sometimes.  
  
"Shit," the man hisses again as he jerks from Dean's touch. "Stronger 'an you look."  
  
Grinning, Dean shuffles his hands into his jacket pocket. "Yeah. Look, I just wanted to say thanks. You saved my dad's ass back there."  
  
The man regards him for a quiet moment before responding, "Well, you're welcome." He slides the key into the door, turns the knob.  
  
"You were awesome," Dean says quickly. "Seriously, way you pinned that crazy bitch - "  
  
"Don't you think you're a little young to be talkin' like that?" the man interrupts sharply, finally turning away from the door to face Dean.  
  
Dean shrugs. "Not that young."  
  
"Yeah you are," the man sighs. He runs his palm over his bald head, flicking his hand away as if he's flicking sweat from his fingertips. "Look, kid, I appreciate your...appreciation, but your daddy finds you out here - "  
  
"My daddy's at the bar."  
  
It halts the stranger's words immediately. He sucks in a quick breath, then licks his lips (as full as Dean's but not as pink, darker, better) and darts his eyes past Dean's figure.  
  
And Dean gets it.  
  
Sharp inhale, wetting an arid mouth, skin tightening like a cage and gaze skittering to search out a father or boyfriend or protective group of friends.  
  
Dean knows the pattern. Those are the same ticks that move him when he finds himself alone with a pretty girl, unsure if he's more nervous about getting caught or what will happen if he doesn't.  
  
But the dip of the man's gaze as he focuses on Dean again can't be the heart hammering stutter of want.  
  
The man has to be close to John’s age. There are crinkles in the thin skin around his eyes, around his full mouth. His shoulders are broad as a door frame and while his waist looks flat underneath his gray shirt, it's wide too. His entire body stretches like a horizon, dark and endless, stretched around sturdy muscle. He could be a hunter, like Dean, like John.  
  
He's definitely a hero. Not only did he save the 2/3 of the Winchester family, he obviously knew how to handle himself and a bitch who'd lost her marbles. His movements, his body, say he could be a cop too, maybe something a little higher up.  
  
The gaze of heroes don’t flash hot under the moonlight, though. Those who protect, who save, like John and this man, don't watch 14-year-old boys with that heat.  
  
"Then you definitely shouldn't be out here."  
  
Dean licks his lips, his own nerves ratcheting skyward as the man watches the movement.  
  
"Well I got you to protect me, don't I?" Dean asks, not knowing where the words or the lilting way his tongue curls around them come from. It's in his nature - his nurture - to push, though. Into danger, into the unknown. Push and push until the darkness is in the open and everything trying to hide gives to his pressure. "What's your name?"  
  
The smile the man flashes is so brilliant white in the lamplight, it's dizzying. The man himself is dizzying, Dean realizes, know that he's looking at him through a different lens. He's handsome, rugged like a hunter but shining like a movie star, and he smells of something spicy that Dean thinks would tickle the back of his tongue. There is something dark in the shift of his muscles as he reaches for another cigarette. Dean's eyes travel the length of his fingers, piano player graceful and thick like his wrist.  
  
He's big, and he's beautiful in a rough way that has Dean trying to burn his image in his mind, and he's peering at Dean in a way that has his body buzzing as manic as it does after a hunt.  
  
"C'mon, man. At least tell me your name."  
  
"Shaft," the man mutters around the cigarette.  
  
Dean laughs, loud and brash, and the man shakes his head.  
  
"You're all sorts a trouble, ain't 'ya kid?"  
  
Grinning, Dean bats his lashes, widening his eyes to show the breadth of vulnerability he only uses to pull in girls and little old ladies. "I ain't," he promises earnestly. "Scouts honor."  
  
The man laughs, then, and it rumbles pleasantly in Dean's belly. Anxiety flutters along with the warmth, butterfly's with dragon wings that he's never felt, not even when Cindy Lee slid his hands under her shirt in a small Missouri town.  
  
"Somehow I doubt you're a scout, kid."  
  
"My name ain't kid. It’s Dean."  
  
He offers his hand. For a moment, he thinks the man won't take it, but then the stranger is sighing and shaking his palm with steady strength. The man's skin is rough against his, sparking little bites of electricity with each brush. His hand reminds Dean of his father's hand.  
  
"Jay."  
  
Dean nods, warming even further at the man's admission. He rolls his next move over carefully in his head. He has the man's name, knows the root of the gleam in the man's eyes. His father will probably stumble back to the motel in an hour or so.  
  
There's no real reason for Dean to linger, for Dean to see where Jay's gaze will lead him, how far.  
  
"I'd just been calling you 'my stranger'," Dean says, eyes never leaving Jay's. "In my head, I mean. Since I saw you lookin' at me in the diner."  
  
Jay turns his head as he blows another stream of smoke.  
  
"Why were you lookin' at me, Jay?" he asks, pitching his voice as low as he can.  
  
Straightening against the wall, Jay drops his cigarette. "I wasn't." The lie is as unconvincing as it is rough. Dean rolls his eyes before fixing Jay with an expectant look. Jay sighs. "I don’t – it don’t matter. I shouldn'ta been lookin'."  
  
Biting his lip, Dean peers into the balmy heat of the night.  
  
Jay shouldn't have been looking, no. Dean understands that it was fucked up, is fucked up, the way Jay eyed him, is eyeing him now.  
  
But it's not as if Jay is preying on him. All he's done is look at Dean. He hasn't even tried to touch.  
  
Dean can't reconcile the hero who saved his father and rode away on a kickass bike, whose hands shake with nerves in Dean's presence, with the pervert who watches the way he licks his lips like he wants to lick the spit right into his own mouth.  
  
The pervert who hasn't touched him. The pervert whose gaze glows the same way his father's does.  
  
Dean's not disgusted, the way he probably should be. He's not frightened. Instead he’s curious, concerned with this strange limbo between right and wrong, diner hero and diner sicko.  
  
As he looks deep into his bones, he finds the same bursts of pleasure shooting as when John had told him how well he'd done tonight, then enveloped him in an embrace that has always meant warmth and safety. He finds the flattery that leaves him pink in the skin and eager in the muscle, the kind he feels when a good girl ignores the eyes of her friends and sits by him, chooses him despite the fact that she's not supposed to.  
  
Jay has chosen him, in a way. Something about him has pulled the bad of a good person to the surface, and Jay has chosen to let it, not to push Dean away. Not the way his father does when that gleam slices his gaze.  
  
"Harley's awesome," Dean comments. His mouth is dry, and he chews the inside of his lip, tongue lapping at his own spit. "Seriously. She's a beauty. What's she - "  
  
"Dean." His name is grit between gleaming teeth. "Look, kid, we both know we should go back to our rooms, so - "  
  
"I don't know that."  
  
Jay sighs, shakes his head, tongues at his full lower lip. Dean bites his own as he peers up the broad length of Jay's body, wonders what the stubble on his cheeks would feel like against his cheeks. Against his belly, his thighs.  
  
Dean shifts from one foot to the other. The flush that biting his face spreads lower, heat sliding from his chest to his stomach to his cock. He's used to hiding this blood bursting warmth, but he doesn't have a desk or backpack or thick textbook, and he can't leave. He doesn't want to yet.  
  
"Well I know it's way past my bedtime."  
  
Jay turns to his door, and just like the first time, something not quite as cold or terrifying as panic rushes Dean's throat. He reaches for Jay's arm. Unlike the first time, Jay doesn't startle at Dean's strength or jerk from Dean's touch. Instead, Jay spins on his heels, force slipping his arm from Dean's gripping fingers, and uses his momentum to knock Dean against the wall.  
  
Dean winces. Jay ignores the twitch of pain, gathering fistfuls of Dean's shirt and using the strength of those biceps as big as Dean's head to lift Dean to his tip toes.  
  
Panting, scared and exhilarated, Dean can't take his eyes off the flex of Jay's arms.  
  
"Do you think you know what you're doing, kid?" Jay asks, voice and hands rough. He shakes Dean hard. "You think I'm a good guy 'cause I didn't let your daddy take a bullet? You don't fucking know me, boy. You don't know what I'd do to you if I got the chance."  
  
Bravado choking him, Dean steels his expression. "No one's stoppin' you," he breathes, heavy and hard, chest heaving. His legs are trembling and his fingers are shaking on Jay's forearms, but he doesn't struggle.  
  
He could, could get away, reach for the pistol he slid into the back of his jeans. If he were afraid, if he really thought Jay would hurt him, he'd pull it now.  
  
But as raging as the storms in Jay's eyes whip, Dean can still see his father looking at him. John wouldn't hurt him. Jay won't hurt him, either.  
  
Jay might do something else to him, though. Dean might let him.  
  
"Jesus, kid," Jay mutters finally, releasing his grip on Dean and taking a full stride backwards.  
  
Jay moves off balance. All Dean has to do is breathe and watch him fall.  
  
Rubbing his chest, Dean takes a deep, unsteady breath. Jay watches him, eyes bewildered and bright. Dean licks his lips, catches Jay on the slide of his tongue.  
  
"I know what I'm doing," Dean says. He doesn't. He doesn't know what he's going to do next, what his end game is. "And I know a little about bikes."  
  
Jay is silent as Dean runs his hands over the gleaming handle bars, the shining body, the leather seat. Dean's admiration of the bike isn't a play. She is beautiful, black and sleek like the Impala, sturdy and strong, dark and just as ready for the fight as her rider.  
  
Dean's never ridden a motorcycle before, but he's always wanted to. He can imagine himself on this Harley, no gaze on him, just the wind on his skin and the earth close enough to touch. He can imagine Sammy behind him, chubby arms wrapped around his waist and ridiculous hair blowing all over his face.  
  
Before Dean realizes he's going to ask the question, he says, "Think I could have a ride?"  
  
His voice is soft and far away as he continues running his fingertips reverently over the metal. When he glances to Jay, the man's eyes are still wide.  
  
It only takes a moment for Dean to realize what he said, how he said it. Embarrassment kisses his cheeks, but he decides quickly that he doesn't want to take the words back.  
  
"Jay?" he asks again, tone lower. "Would you give me a ride?"  
  
"Your daddy'd definitely kill me for that."  
  
Smiling so sweet his own teeth hurt, Dean says, "My daddy don't have to know."  
  
"I don't have an extra helmet." When Dean opens his mouth to say he doesn't need protection, Jay holds up a wide hand and shakes his head. "I'm serious, kid. Whatever game you're playing, you're on your own, ok?"  
  
Dean clenches his jaw as Jay turns his back on him for the third time. Jay doesn't get to leave (leave him alone). Jay is the one looking at him like he's an all you can eat buffet. Jay is the one who made Dean wonder, who brought Dean to the other side of this shitty motel. And Dean didn't leave, didn't tell him to fuck off like the sick fuck he clearly is underneath the strength and obvious good. Jay doesn't get to throw it all back in his face.  
  
The rejection stings too deeply. Dean wants that wrong thrilled flattery back, that adrenaline from breathing under Jay's appraising gaze and being found worthy.  
  
"I'll just steal it."  
  
Jay pauses.  
  
"I may be a kid, but I know how to steal a bike."  
  
Jay's shoulders, strong and spanning, tense. He still doesn't turn around, though, and Dean clenches his fists. He wants those eyes on him again.  
  
"What are you gonna do? Call the police? Doesn't look like you got enough cash or friends to get another ride."  
  
That gets Jay to turn around. He's lit with anger, imposing and overwhelming and larger than any monster Dean's fought. Dean's heart beat quickens.  
  
"What do you want from me?" Jay asks. He sounds tired.  
  
"I just want a ride." It's mostly true. Dean does want a ride. He wants other things to, though, things he can't give words or weight to in his brain.  
  
Jay runs his palm over his head. Teeth clenched, he finally says, "And then you'll leave me the hell alone?"  
  
Dean grins. "Scouts honor."  
  
-  
  
The ride is exhilarating. Jay's Harley zips through the enveloping warmth of the night, air and darkness whipping against Dean's cheeks. Dean whoops and shouts and holds one arm up, feels the world slip soft and quick through his fingers.  
  
Jay drives them to an old park that sits in the middle of a new industrial park. There's only one set of creaking swing sets, a few damp benches. The bushes and trees are overgrown, wild and dark as the night.  
  
The smile on Dean's face is starting to dig into his cheeks, but he can't break it, even as he climbs off the Harley.  
  
When Jay takes off his helmet, he's smiling, too. He's rolling his eyes, shaking his head, but his grin is just as wide and honest as Dean's. It ratchets Dean's own joy.  
  
"So I guess you had fun?"  
  
"That was awesome!" Dean says as he moves to stand by the handle bars. Still smiling, he turns around, surveying the park.  
  
After several moments of silence, Jay says, "Ok. You had your ride. Now I gotta get you back."  
  
The light surging through Dean dims. Back is the empty motel room. Back is waiting for John to come back, drunk or broken down. Back is crawling out of bed and patting John’s shoulder, telling him everything okay. Back is John peering at him with that dark gaze, John falling asleep while he stares at the walls.  
  
Dean cranes his neck to look Jay in the eyes. Whatever is on his face, in his own gaze, has Jay's words trailing to nothing. "Can we just stay out a little longer?"  
  
"Sure," Jay finally agrees. "Sure, kid. We can stay a little bit."  
  
-  
  
Somehow 'staying a little bit' turns into Jay sitting with his back to rough tree bark and Dean squirming in his lap.  
  
Everything happens in too fast slow motion. Dean doesn't know how his arms end up around Jay's neck, how his thighs end up around Jay's sturdy middle. He does know that his limbs feel leaden and free against the heat of Jay's body. He does know his blood is rushing and his body is singing.  
  
It's so overwhelmingly different than the few bumps and grinds he's had. Jay's lips are bigger and softer and hungrier than any girl's, and the strength of his body under Dean's make Dean feel simultaneously huge and small, powerful and vulnerable. Everything is so much more, so much better. Dean beats frantic in the throes of it.  
  
He swivels his hips, seeking friction for the hard line of his dick. The quick jerk of the movement has him sliding to the side.  
  
Jay's huge hands come to curl around his hip bones, keep him steady. His hands span over so much of Dean's body, Dean feels dizzy.  
  
"Slow down, kid," Jay gasps against his lips. "Gonna knock yourself off."  
  
"Gonna knock you off," Dean murmurs nonsensically. Jay laughs. Dean settles closer, ass slotting firm against the huge hard press of Jay's cock. Jay's laughter turns breathy, stutters into a groan.  
  
A sense of satisfaction rolls through Dean at the sound. He rubs himself along Jay's erection again, dropping more of his weight against it, and grins at Jay's low moan.  
  
His smile morphs into a grimace as Jay uses his grip on Dean's hips to move Dean forward, dragging Dean's own erection against his stomach. Dean bites off his groan, head falling into the nape of Jay's neck.  
  
"Hey, don't - c'mon, Dean." Jay raises his right hand to stroke Dean's hot cheek, coax Dean into turning his face into Jay's palm. Jay's fingers curl around Dean's chin, angle Dean's face so they can meet each other's gaze. "Let me hear you."  
  
The smugness Dean felt at bringing this hero to the ground, at bringing this man as sturdy and strong as his father to this mess, melts into the background. The unsure feeling that creeps into Dean's belly when he has a pretty girl alone begins to bloom.  
  
He wants to tuck his face back into Jay's neck, focus on grinding against the blood hot twitch of Jay's cock, on pulling more of those noises from Jay's spit slick mouth. But Jay uses the grip on his chin to urge Dean closer, take his mouth in another hazy dazy kiss that has Dean forgetting every other kiss he's been given.  
  
Dean opens his mouth so Jay can sweep his tongue inside. It's huge and hot and Dean doesn't try to tangle with it. He just breathes, keeps his mouth soft and yielding.  
  
"Jesus," Jay pants as he jerks away from the kiss. He takes a deep gulp of air. Dean watches the moment of his throat through half-lidded eyes. "Jesus Christ, you're beautiful."  
  
The word startles Dean from his haze. In the midst of humping this stranger in an old park, Dean blushes.  
  
Jay groans again and surges forward for another kiss. Dean pants around Jay's tongue, brain swimming in the thick fog of new emotions and want. He tries sucking on it, pulling it deeper. Jay's fingers dig into his hips and even through the denim, Dean can feel bruises buzz to life.  
  
He's going to have purple kissing his skin for days after this. The thought has him groaning, digging his fingers into the nape of Jay's neck, humping forward helpless and without rhythm.  
  
"Yeah. That's it, kid. C'mon, beautiful."  
  
Dean whimpers, feels tears bite at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't know if it's the sudden desperation to come or the sudden smallness he feels under Jay's velvet words that has him gulping on air, that has his eyes burning.  
  
He drops his forehead under Jay's chin. The hand that had been on his face comes to his hair. Jay runs his palm over his skull, then his fingers through Dean's hair.  
  
"You almost there, Dean?" Jay asks, rough and soft.  
  
Dean makes a pitiful sound into his neck, then moans as Jay slides both hands to grip his ass.  
  
"That's good, sweetheart. You're - uh," Jay groans, hips punching into Dean's. "God. You're so good. So fuckin' sweet and hot and god damn pretty."  
  
Dean tries to shake his head. He's not sweet, he's not pretty. Sweet and pretty don't bring good men this far down. Sweet and pretty don't draw his father's eyes the way he's been drawing his father's eyes. Sweet and pretty don't hunt monsters and keep John and Sammy safe.  
  
"So - shit, so perfect. Knew I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you. Had to - wanted you the second I saw you. Most beautiful thing I've ever seen."  
  
Embarrassingly, those are the words that pull Dean's orgasm those last few breaths to the surface. Dean spills hot in his jeans, making a mess of the denim, making a mess of him.  
  
He chokes through the pleasure of it, mouth falling open and hurt little noises pouring sloppily into Jay's mouth. Jay's hands push and pull and drag him as his cock pumps his underwear full of come, as his body trembles and shakes from the overwhelming thrill of it all.  
  
Dean is a panting rag doll as Jay continues to move him. Hard, hot grunts fall over the ground as Jay starts to press his clothed cock faster and faster against Dean's clothed ass. Jay keeps sliding messy kisses from Dean's mouth, and Dean, limp and overwrought, lets him.  
  
Time fades into something untraceable. Dean rides Jay's dick through the denim of their jeans and doesn't think about how long it takes, about what time it is, when Jay finally pushes a punishing grind into Dean's ass and groans.  
  
-  
  
The ride back to the motel is awkward. They speed passed trees and asphalt and everything is a blur of mismatched colors and patterns that hurt Dean's eyes. The air feels heavier. When Dean opens his palms to catch the wind, nothing flits airy against his skin, as if the atmosphere has stagnated since their last ride. The cooling wet mess in his jeans doesn't add any comfort to the strain.  
  
Jay slows as they enter the motel parking lot, asking Dean for his room number. Dean is going to tell him it's cool, he'll walk back to his room, when the Impala speeds passed them.  
  
Both of them freeze as John jerks into a parking space then barrels out. Every tense, furious line of his body screams bloody murder. Dean can only gulp as his father moves toward him.  
  
"You get the hell away from my boy," John is snarling, teeth flashing fang like in the lamp light.  
  
Dean jumps off the Harley, moving lighting quick to put himself between his father's rage and Jay.  
  
John doesn't halt at Dean's body block. He pushes Dean out of the way with a swipe of forearm, barreling forward for blood.  
  
"Dad," Dean pleads, moving to reach for his arm, a mirror of his attempts to keep Jay anchored to him earlier.  
  
At the brush of Dean's fingers, his father spins to face him. John is glowing black in his rage.  
  
Unconsciously taking a step back, Dean licks his lips. He's going to pitch his words low, speak soothing, the way he does when the world or evil or Sam has darkened his father, but John's gaze drops to his kiss swollen mouth. Anger and that unnamable thing that Dean now knows all over his skin blast in his father's eyes, and Dean forgets how to speak.  
  
John flicks his attention to Jay, whose keeping himself precariously balanced on the bike. In a flash John is in front of Jay, one hand shooting to grip Jay's jacket while the other shoots to grip Jay's neck.  
  
"Dad - "  
  
"Give me one reason I shouldn't put you down like a mutt right here," John growls.  
  
Jay gulps in John's hold. "I didn't touch him," he wheezes.  
  
John's fingers tighten. "You're gonna fuckin' wish you hadn't."  
  
"He didn't," Dean lies. He rushes forward, hands tugging at his father's jacket. "He didn't, Dad, I swear - "  
  
Suddenly his father's hands are on him, gripping his shoulders so tight he'll have bruises to match the ones burning his hips. He hisses at the sharp pain, but doesn't struggle. His father holds him in the too tight grip for several breaths, then releases him with a heavy push.  
  
Dean stumbles back, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Get to the room," John snarls.  
  
With a surge of unfathomable courage, Dean steps forward. "Dad," he whispers, hoping to placate the dark thing lashing in his father's eyes. "I know I shouldn't have left the room, okay, but Jay saved our asses earlier, and I just wanted to - "  
  
"If you don't get back to the room right now, you'll run PT three times a day for the rest of your life."  
  
Dean shuts his stupid, stupid mouth. He offers an apologetic glance to Jay, but Jay isn't looking at him. His gaze is firmly fixated on the ground.  
  
-  
  
Back in the motel room, Dean brushes his teeth with his back turned to the mirror. Jay couldn't look him in the eyes, and now he finds he can't either.  
  
The door slams, knob banging into the wall and sending a resounding thump through the entire room. It makes Dean jump. He doesn't want to wander from the bathroom, but he also doesn't want his father to collect him from his hiding spot.  
  
Tentative, he pads from the bathroom to find his father piling clothes into his duffle.  
  
"Dad?" he asks softly.  
  
His father doesn't look up. "We're leaving now. Get your shit together."  
  
Dean bites his lip. He's hesitant to speak in the flurry of his father's fury, but those are his jeans being thrown into the duffle, and he desperately needs a cleaner pair than those sticking to his thighs.  
  
Steeling his voice, trying to speak more steady and sure than he feels, he says, "Just give me a minute." He slips through the room until he's standing opposite his father, a bed and pile of clothes the only things between them.  
  
When he reaches for a pair of jeans spilling haphazardly from his father's bag, John snatches his wrist in a bruising grip.  
  
"Now doesn't mean in a minute, Dean. Get ready."  
  
"I'm - " trying, Dean is going to say, but his father doesn't stand for excuses. Frustrated, Dean jerks from the grip. "I just need to change."  
  
As soon as the words leave him, Dean realizes he's said just about the stupidest thing he could say. His father pauses for several tense moments, then clenches his jaw to the point of trembling and fishes a pair of jeans from the duffle.  
  
"Thought he didn't touch you," his father growls, tossing the pants into Dean's shaking arms.  
  
Silence is the safest option, so Dean bites his cheek and unsnaps the button of his soiled jeans.  
  
"Don't - "  
  
At the strained order, Dean snaps his gaze to his father, only to find him watching Dean with narrowed, shaking eyes.  
  
Dean takes a deep, cutting breath. He's never thought anything of changing in front of his father or Sammy, but now that he's felt John's gaze in his throat, his hips, his fingers stutter on his jeans.  
  
His father exhales, shaky as Jay was breathing around him earlier.  
  
"Just. Go get changed, then grab your stuff."  
  
Emboldened, terrified, Dean's lips move to defy his father for the first time. "Why can't I just get changed out here?"  
  
"Dammit, Dean," John snaps. "Stop stalling and - "  
  
"I'm not stalling," Dean says honestly. He's assessing, digging deep into something dark and terror thrilled. Testing, he licks his lips, watches as he catches his father on the hook the same way he caught Jay.  
  
He doesn't know if he's excited or disappointed. His father is supposed to be better than this. Better than a man with goodness and twisted want. John is supposed to be comprised only of strong things, of heroes. But John seems to be cracked as deeply as Jay, the splinters of good Dean wormed his way into so easily.  
  
It wouldn't be so easy with John, he doesn't think, but he doesn't know. He thinks wants to, though. He thinks he needs to.  
  
Dean lets himself fall against the bed, thighs pressing into the edge. His father watches the movement with quickening breath.  
  
"Daddy," he says softly, questioning.  
  
John snaps. Rearing back, he grabs the duffle and spins around, turning his back on Dean again (again and again and again).  
  
"I'm leaving in five minutes, with or without you."  
  
-  
  
Shaking in dry jeans, Dean rushes to the Impala. He scans the parking lot for Jay's Harley. He doesn't find it.  
  
Dean doesn't ask his father where it is.  
  
John starts the car and they peel from the parking lot. They drive in silence for half an hour. Dean's head lulls against the window as he watches the world spin.  
  
"If you ever do anything like that again," John grits.  
  
When John doesn't continue the statement, Dean turns his head, peering at his father from under his lashes.  
  
"What?" Dean asks, bold and bawdy, because he has a right to question John now. He has a right to dig now that he knows what lurks in John’s depths.  
  
"I shouldn't have to tell you this, Dean. You shouldn't be stupid enough to go off with some stranger. I ever catch you doing that, I ever catch you looking at a man like that, I swear..."  
  
"What?" Dean pushes. "What'll you do, daddy?"  
  
His father curses under his breath and punches the gas. The car speeds forward so quickly Dean jerks in his seat.  
  
"I'll beat your ass 'til you can't sit," John finally mutters. "You should know better. There are monsters out there, Dean."  
  
Dean rolls his eyes back to the window. "Jay was human, Dad."  
  
"You don't know that. And that's not what I meant. People can be monsters too, Dean."  
  
"Yeah," Dean says, turning his body and attention towards his father. He watches John, searches his face and posture and white knuckles, doesn't know what he's searching for. After several moments, his father glances at him. They gaze at each other until Dean says, "Yeah, Dad. I know people can be monsters."  
  
Straightening, his father snaps his eyes back to the road.  
  
Dean settles against the car door, forehead resting on the coolness of the window. "Where we goin'?"  
  
"Pick up Sammy from Bobby's."  
  
Dean hums a soft noise before closing his eyes. His body, his mind, is exhausted. It seems to weigh his skin down, melt it into the Impala, leave him boneless.  
  
He falls asleep under the weight of his father's gaze.


End file.
